The Plantagenet Vendetta (23 page)

For the next twenty minutes Jen concentrated on the folders. She found the entry for Luke Rankin in the expected place – the burial recorded as having taken place on 28 July the previous year. There were two other burials that month, but neither were Debra Harrison. In all honesty, an entry for Debra Harrison was the last thing she expected; should there be one, it would have confirmed she was dead, for a start. The only other burials for July, August, and September were for people over the age of sixty-five. At face value the details seemed to check out – she didn’t know any of the names, but she had no reason to doubt the entries. She found an entry for Rankin’s father, originally buried in the graveyard, but reinterred in the vault less than a fortnight after the death of his son.

Again, in theory, that checked out fine.

The older entries were interesting. She had expected a billion or more Jeffries, Catesbys, Ratcliffes et cetera, and she hadn’t been disappointed. Some of the names she recognised, having seen them in the vault herself the previous day. True enough, there was no record of the older ones.

Evidently, the priest was right.

The burials before that period must have been Protestant.

The records of which were at Bishopton.

The village of Bishopton was located less than four miles away. Like Wootton, it was an idyllic symbol of Merry England that comprised a village pub, village green, cricket ground, and several thatched cottages.

The church was located on the edge of the village, overlooking the moors and the coast. The sign on the gate confirmed that the Church of Our Lady of the Rose was indeed Protestant and dated back to the mid 1200s.

The church was open. A beautiful Victorian font was the key feature at the rear of the church, accompanied by several wall plaques, their words connected with everything from passages of the gospels to the names of soldiers lost in the two great wars.

A man in his early seventies was standing at the front of the church, dressed all in black and wearing a dog collar. A list of former parish priests and vicars had been put up close to the door.

“Reverend Dennis, I presume?”

The man adjusted his bifocals. “May I be of any assistance?”

“My name is Jennifer Farrelly; I’m a researcher from London.”

“Are you really? I’d have placed you more in the Midlands area.”

A wry smile. “You’re very perceptive – I’m originally from Nottinghamshire.”

“Ah, I thought as much – I lived there myself over ten years. Are you familiar with the village of Blidworth?”

“Yes, I am.”

“My first parish.”

“Also the final resting place of Will Scarlock, I’ve been told.”

The vicar smiled. “Yes, so goes the legend.”

Jen brushed her hair aside. “As a matter of fact, I was hoping to talk to you about something similar.”

The vicar’s attitude became more sombre. “Oh dear, I’m so sorry. Did they pass away today?”

Jen laughed as a reflex. “No, no, it’s nothing like that,” she said, starting to feel uncomfortable. “I’m researching a documentary on the history of Wootton-on-the-Moor. I understand from the parish priest that you hold the burial records for when the church was Protestant.”

The vicar nodded. “Yes, you understand correctly. I think they’re in my library. It’s this way.”

The old rectory was a grim-looking two-storey house lying on the other side of the graveyard. Like the churchyard at Wootton, there were hundreds of dilapidated headstones, most of which were too weathered to offer any details of the deceased’s past. Worse still, the area perpetually echoed with the sounds of rooks. Jen had a theory that the most broken gravestones had been put there for one purpose – just to scare her – but she knew she couldn’t prove it. No matter where she went, the graveyards never really changed – at least except for the weather. The sun was still shining, which was a bonus.

If only she could shut the bloody rooks up.

The library surpassed her expectations. The room was well laid out with several large bookcases covering all four walls. The vicar’s desk was located in between two of them, placed before a large window that overlooked the church. He made her a white coffee with two sugars, and sat her down with eighteen folders, all of which looked as if they were on the verge of falling apart.

She guessed they had never been researched.

“The records here go back to 1660,” the vicar said. “The year of the restoration of the monarchy.”

The number of books certainly looked more promising than at Wootton.

“Is this everything?” Jen asked.

“We have a few scattered fragments that go back further – I keep them under lock and key due to their historical value.”

She accepted the response. “Thanks very much – and for the coffee.”

“I’ll be downstairs if you need anything.”

The vicar departed, leaving Jen alone in the large room. She started immediately on the first folder. The handwriting was messy and difficult to read, but her time at Nottingham gave her an advantage for this sort of thing.

The date for the first entry was July 1871.

For the next half an hour she concentrated on what was directly in front of her. She read through the later entries quickly. The usual suspects were where she expected them to be. The Jeffries and Catesbys, in particular, more or less tallied with what she had seen in the vaults – though there were certain names she did not recognise. Her gut feeling told her it was something to do with that hidden room; unfortunately, unlike at Wootton, this register did not distinguish between the graveyard and the vaults.

Two entries caught her eye. The first was the apparent reinterment of one Sir William Catesby, died 1485. Developing what she’d learned after finding the grave of Robert Catesby, this offered further clarity that the Catesby family were indeed the same one that had once been prominent in the running of the country.

She didn’t remember seeing the grave itself.

The second surprise was one Lord Jeffries, initial E, she guessed that stood for Edward, dying late 1688. There was a note in the margin, written in Latin,

Rex Angliae
.

The literal translation was King of England.

She looked at the words for several seconds, confused. The idea was implausible, but thoughts of the day before continued to dominate her mind. The Jeffries’ motto, she had established, was God and my right.

The same as the Plantagenets.

And the modern-day Royal Family.

The more she thought about it, the more she wondered about a connection with the Plantagenet monument. The name Plantagenet was rare – as far as she was aware it was unique only to the former kings of England and their Angevin relatives. She knew that many kings had mistresses, their illegitimate offspring later making do with substantial payoffs – and usually peerages.

Rarely did it amount to anything more.

Nevertheless, the date was intriguing.

Whoever it was died within months of the Glorious Rising and the abdication of James II.

She also remembered from the vault that at least two of the Jeffries had fought against King James II in the same war.

She got out her iPhone and looked up both on the Internet. She started with Catesby. The original Sir William had risen from fairly mediocre beginnings to become chancellor during the reign of Richard III. He died at Bosworth, executed without trial after the battle.

If the burial record was accurate, his body was reinterred four hundred years later.

Lord Jeffries was described in little detail. Indeed, the E stood for Edward, and he, too, had been executed. According to his Wikipedia entry, the man had fought with the Duke of Monmouth in 1685, and then with Mary, later Mary II, against James II – her father.

Movement behind her roused her attention.

“Everything all right?” the vicar asked.

Jen smiled and nodded. “Fine, thank you.”

The vicar smiled and sought to leave.

“How much do you know about the history of the parish?” Jen asked before he left.

“You mean Bishopton?”

“No, Wootton, sorry.”

The vicar re-entered the room. “Not much, I’m sorry to say; it’s never been my cure. Why do you ask?”

“It’s just so many of the names seem to overlap – Catesby, Ratcliffe…Jeffries.”

The vicar smiled. “Ah, yes, the families go back a long way…I know Lord Ratcliffe believes he can trace his ancestors right back to before the Norman Conquest.”

That was impressive if true. “Wow.”

“Lord Jeffries, too, has quite a selection of family memorabilia.”

“You’ve seen it?”

“Personally, no. Though I have been told it’s most impressive.”

Jen nodded. “Who were the Jeffries?”

Who was
Rex Angliae
?

“Prominent landowners, minor peers…to be perfectly truthful, I don’t really know much about them.”

That makes two of us.

“You mentioned there were some other records – under lock and key.”

“That’s right.” He gestured to a glass cabinet.

Jen left her seat and walked to where the vicar had pointed. There were ten sheets of parchment in total, all displaying contemporary Latin handwriting.

The content was illegible to her.

“What are they?”

“That document records the granting of a manor at a place called Ravensfield to a son of the king by Edward III.”

“Ravensfield?”

“Yes. Not much is known of the early history. It is believed by some the village of Ravensfield was wiped out by the Black Death and modern-day Wootton built on top of it. It’s dated 1352.”

Suddenly the Plantagenet connection started to make sense. “Any idea who?”

“His name was Edmund of Langley, the second youngest of Edward III’s five sons who lived into adulthood. When the male line died out, King Edward IV granted ownership of the manor to his brother, later Richard III. On the marriage of Henry VII to Edward IV’s daughter, Elizabeth of York, the manor remained in the queen’s family.”

Jen listened carefully. “So the manor remained Yorkist?”

“Ah, but by then the king and queen were married. The houses of Lancaster and York were united – joined by that one ceremony.” The vicar looked at her, only this time in a slightly different way. “Have you ever noticed how the Tudor rose is a mixture of red and white?”

“I thought it was mainly red.”

“Contrary to popular belief, the red rose of Lancaster was not in use during the Wars of the Roses – it is possible it was designed by Henry VII himself. Either way, Henry Tudor’s claim to the throne of England was weak. He was descended of Edward III through his son, John of Gaunt, and his third wife, Katherine Swynford. Gaunt, after taking the unusual step of marrying his mistress, made his children legitimate. Henry’s only claim was on his mother’s side, the Beaufort line, whereas his father was merely a minor nobleman. His marriage into the House of York was necessary to augment his claim. With Richard III dead, it was Elizabeth, not Henry, whose claim to the throne was strongest.”

“Wow, I never knew that.”

In truth, she knew it well.

“At Wootton, I noticed there are quite a lot of burials both before and after 1879.”

This time it was the vicar who was confused.

“Does this mean that some are Protestant and others Catholic?”

“Ah, I see what you mean…yes, anything before 1879 would have been done using the Protestant rite.”

“Forgive me, I’m so confused, it seems that practically everyone in the village converted at the same time.”

The vicar smiled. “More likely most of them were actually Catholic to begin with.”

“Sorry, I don’t follow.”

“Well, it’s perfectly simple, really. Prior to 1829 and the Act of Emancipation, there were many restrictions on what a Catholic could and could not do.”

“You mean recusancy?”

“Up until the 17th century, yes. However, even after that time it was far easier going along with the rules.”

Jen nodded, but silently she was confused. “When was the vault at St Michael’s first constructed?”

“I think it goes back to about the 1600s.”

Surely too late for the symbol she had seen. “I don’t suppose anyone still has the original blueprints?” she asked, more in hope than expectation.

“I really wouldn’t know.”

Jen fought a grimace, turning it instantly into a smile. “Thank you so much for your time, Reverend. It’s been really, really useful.”

32

Thomas shouldn’t have been surprised where Wilson took him. Rather than embarking on a one-hour drive through the Cotswolds to Wilson’s three-bed Worcestershire cottage, the retired professor pulled up less than two minutes later on Broad Street and took Thomas across a courtyard to one of the most imposing buildings in the city.

The Tower of the Five Orders.

The main entrance of the Bodleian Library.

Wilson’s second home.

Wilson led the way through the heavy 17th-century doors of the main entrance, their appearance more in keeping with a castle than a library. The coats of arms of several of Oxford’s famous colleges mark the doors at equal intervals, intensifying the feeling that they belong to a building of high esteem.

Wilson knew the inside like the back of his hand, whereas in three years at Keble, Thomas had only visited it once – not that he would admit it. The sheer scale of the buildings was magnificent, and practically impossible to navigate without a tour guide.

Fortunately, he had arguably the best in the business.

Five minutes later they entered a reading room somewhere in the Clarendon Building that seemed off-limits to the majority. Like the library at Keble, its appearance was predominantly Victorian with church-style windows, several bookcases, and three large desks. A brown-haired man in his fifties sat reading, the room’s only occupant. He wore bifocals and a snug green jumper.

“I thought I’d find you in here, you rascal.”

The man was taken momentarily off guard before realising who was talking to him.

“Well, if it isn’t old Paddy Wilson,” the man said, rising to his feet and extending his right hand. “I thought you’d been living it up in Spain.”

“Only in the winter months,” he replied with a smile.

Wilson gestured to the prince.

“Harry, may I introduce a former student of mine: Prince Thomas Winchester, heir to the Duchy of Clarence. Thomas, this is Harry Ainsworth, an old adversary from Magdalen.”

Ainsworth eyed the prince cautiously, offering his hand. “An unexpected honour.”

Thomas accepted it and smiled but for now remained silent.

“I was wondering if we could show Thomas the Bosworth Manuscript?” Wilson asked.

Ainsworth looked back with a neutral expression. Clearly the question was unexpected.

“Of course. Right this way.”